The Valentine Conundrum
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock doesn't know what to do about Valentine's Day. Sherlolly


Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective detective, really didn't see why DI Lestrade had bothered to summon him from his warm and cosy flat for such a case as this one. Barely a two. Just a rather bizarre accident. The victim, at least what could be seen of the victim, was lying on the pavement, two feet and one arm protruding from an upright piano, or what remained of one after the fall from as as yet undetermined height.

"Well, Sherlock, whatdya think?," the copper asked with a guilty smile.

"I think, Graham, that we have been transported into some bizarre world of animation. Rather cartoonish, wouldn't you say?", Holmes opined as he leaned in carefully to plink a musical note on one of the still operating piano keys. "Obviously an accident. Unless you believe that someone deliberately rigged a piano to fall on this gentleman? There are so many easier ways of doing away with someone, don't you think?"

"Of course, it's an accident, you git! But not something you see every day, is it? Something to remember, this is. Something to tell your kids about, eh?"

"I do not have children, as you well know. And if you plan on entertaining yours with tales of falling pianos and squashed pedestrians, I pity them all the more."

"I suppose so. But you have to see the humor in this, eh? I expect to see Wile E. Coyote, or Daffy Duck appear at any moment!"

"I suppose those two would be appropriate. It's seems a bit violent for a Disney cartoon, after all."

As the detective seemed to be rapidly losing interest in the bizarre scene, Lestrade followed up with a question on a different subject. "So, you and Molly got any special plans for the weekend?"

Holmes looked a bit puzzled. "Why would we have plans for this weekend? And why would they be special?"

"Well, it is Valentine's Day on Sunday, and I thought, maybe…"

"Please refer to my previous response, Grant. Why would you assume that Molly and I would have plans?"

"Look, Sherlock, you spend an awful lot of time with the woman, after all. And she seems to have stop dating entirely. So, it's not beyond the realm of possibility that people are beginning to speculate about your relationship…"

"There is no 'relationship', Lestrade, as you should well know. Dr. Hooper and I are friends, nothing more."

"If you say so, mate, but even friends are allowed to do something for Valentine's Day. You don't have to sweep her off her feet with expensive jewelry and naughty underwear. Try being a nice guy for a change and bring her some candy or something. She can't be all that thrilled about being alone on the most romantic holiday of the year."

Holmes just grunted, non-committedly, but in reality had already begun to take his policeman friend's advice under advisement. He certainly didn't want to hurt his pathologist's feelings, but at the same time couldn't decide exactly what would be considered an appropriate action. This was made all the more difficult because he had never really come to terms with just, exactly, what his feelings were regarding Molly Hooper. More than a friend, perhaps, but certainly less than a lover, at least as things currently stood. Perhaps he needed advice from someone more versed in dealing with the female of the species. His friend the policeman had seemingly had his share of relationships, but at least several of them involved the same woman, his once and future ex-wife. Perhaps he should ask the opinion of a more successful Lothario, but all he could come up with was an adrenaline addicted ex-army doctor married to a reformed assassin. He decided that since John Watson was neither divorced nor dead, he was the obvious choice.

Sherlock decided that, since he wanted this to be a private conversation, he would head back to Baker Street and summon John to the flat. as there was no such thing as privacy when Mary Watson was around. John answered his text immediately, promising to drop by after clinic hours. The detective was sitting comfortably in his favorite chair when he heard the downstairs door open, a bit early for it to be John Watson, he thought. And he was proved correct when his brother Mycroft darkened hs doorway.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Just calling in to see you would like to accompany me to see the parents this Sunday. It's Valentine's Day, and Mummy is such a romantic, as you know."

"What kind of a mama's boy goes to visit his mother on Valentine's Day, brother?"

"The kind who has no other female companion with whom to spend the day, Sherlock, so, of course, I immediately thought of inviting you!"

"How pathetic! Two rapidly aging bachelors traveling to the boondocks to visit their seemingly ageless other. Is my life really this much of a cliche?"

"I hate to disappoint you, brother, but Anthea will be accompanying me. Perhaps you should ask Dr. Hooper?"

Sherlock thought for just a moment, then, despite certain misgivings, decided to broach the subject with his elder brother. "Mycroft, since you brought up Dr. Hooper, perhaps you could advise me on something?"

Mycroft Holmes looked more than a bit surprised. His brother asking for his advice was just slightly less surprising than peace in the middle east and an alien invasion. Combined. "Of course, Sherlock, ask away."

"I have been considering the appropriateness of giving Molly something for Valentine's Day. I don't want to overstep the bounds of our relationship, if you can even consider what we have to be a relationship. But I don't want to hurt her, or offend her, by not getting her something. Any suggestions?"

"Flowers are always appropriate, brother mine. I remember Mummy saying once that every woman deserves flowers on Valentine's Day. I have already arranged for a delivery to Dr. Hooper on Sunday. And to Mummy, as well. I added your name to Mummy's, by the way, just as I always do."

"Well, that explains the thank you note a always receive around this time of year! But why are you sending flowers to my pathologist?"

"I prefer to think of her as my friend, as well as your pathologist, Sherlock. I admire Molly Hooper, as well as like her, very much. She has been a godsend to this family, whether you choose to acknowledge the fact or not, and a simple floral arrangement is certainly too little in the way of repayment. Would you like the name of my florist?"

"No thank you. I think I can come up with something more appropriate."

The brother were then interrupted by the arrival of Dr. John Watson. "So, what's the deal, Sherlock? You said you needed advice." The new arrival noticed a slight smirk on the older brother's face as the man rose to take his leave, saying, "I'll leave you to it then. But I'll text you the info about my florist, just in case, brother." With that Mycroft Holmes picked up his umbrella and departed, relieved that someone else was there to advise his brother on this particular problem.

"John, should I get Molly a Valentine's present, or not?" the tall man with the dark curls said without preamble.

John Watson took the inquiry in stride, not betraying the fact that he was, a bit, amazed that the sentiment-phobic detective would even entertain the idea of giving a woman a gift for Valentine's Day. "Sounds like a good idea, mate. What did you have in mind?"

"I haven't narrowed it down yet, John. Something somewhere between a humorous card and scandalous lingerie."

"That's quite a range of choices, Sherlock. Let's start by deciding to which side of the spectrum you're leaning!"

"That's my problem, John. I certainly don't want to hurt Molly but offering an inadequate gift, but I don't want to offend her by going overboard. But Graham…"

"Greg!"

"Yes, well, he suggested I should get her something, as she is currently without a suitor, and is likely to be feeling this a bit more strongly at this time of year. He said that friends often gives gifts simply to celebrate their friendship, that it need not be overly romantic, after all."

"That's certainly true. Mary and I bought her a box of chocolates…"

"And Mycroft sent her flowers! Bloody hell, am I the only one who didn't think to get her something. I really am an arsehole! I'm closer to her than any of you. She the closest thing I've had to a girlfriend twenty years. Oh, who the bloody hell am I kidding - in my whole life. Thank you, John. You have helped me greatly…"

"I haven't done anything…"

"Please see yourself out. You certainly know the way. I have some shopping to do. Are we still on for dinner on Sunday? You and Mary, and my goddaughter, of course, and Molly and I?"

"Yes, of course. See you then," John spoke to Sherlock's retreating back as his friend hurried down the stairs and out the front door.

The following evening, Saturday, Molly Hooper sat in her sitting room, debating whether to expend the effort to cook herself a meal, or simply place an order for a delivery. With every sip of her wine, a delivery seemed the better option. She had spent the day doing practically meaningless chores - organizing closets which didn't need organizing, scrubbing floors which didn't need scrubbing, and daydreaming dreams that would never come true. It was now almost eleven o'clock, just over an hour until the day she had been dreading. Perhaps "dread" was too strong a word, but there was simply no denying that, as the years passed, she was becoming more and more unhappy about her state of single blessedness, and Valentine's Day just seemed to rub salt in the wounds. She had hoped that Sherlock Holmes, the unrequited love of her life, would somehow magically appear to keep her company, watching crap telly and eating take away from containers while sitting on her couch. They had spent many an evening this way over the last couple of years, but Molly had always known that she was nothing more than a standin for John Watson, who was, of course, too occupied by spousal and paternal duties to be at the detective's beck and call. It hurt a bit to know that she was merely second choice, but not enough to call a halt to the get-togethers. Even if she hadn't been madly in love with the man, she would have enjoyed basking in his presence. He was stunningly brilliant, and brilliantly stunning, and Molly Hooper had been completely in his thrall from the moment they had met. But this evening, it seemed, she would have to get by with solitary drinking, and the fantasies presented in her dreams.

Shortly before midnight, Molly finished her drinking and retired to bed to lose herself in the fantasies. She had barely had time to doze, when she was re-awakened by the sound of someone picking her lock, and of course, she knew just who. Sherlock, or a burglar. She glanced at her clock to find that it was just after midnight. Valentine's Day. Perhaps she was about to be accosted by a holiday burglar, a kissing bandit, stealing her heart, and…

"Hold on," she said to herself, "That must be the drink talking!" She got out of bed, wrapped a robe around her, and walked clumsily into the sitting room to confront the confounding man once more about picking her lock, especially in the middle of the night. But she stopped short when she saw him, loaded down with a mountain of bizarre objects. Before she could utter a single word, he held out a stuffed raccoon, contained in what appeared to be a see-through body bag. Molly took it apprehensively from his hand to study more closely. The plush animal had tire tracks across its midsection, and a zipper. She carefully removed it from its body bag, and gently undid the zip, to discover its internal organs rapidly becoming external. She stared in disbelief for a moment, before collapsing into gales of laughter.

"Thank bloody hell, that was the reaction I was going for! If you'd have vomited it wouldn't bode well for the rest of your Valentine's Day!" Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, and moved to the couch, placing a large shopping bag on the floor and removing his coat to settle in. "I knew that they didn't call you 'Morbid Molly' for nothing…"

"Nobody calls me 'Morbid Molly' anymore, you git.."

"Well, maybe not to your face," the detective responded with a knowing grin. "But, that's just the beginning. They're not all that morbid, Molly," he said with a grin, reaching into the shopping bag, and pulling out several T-shirts. One simply said, "Want to see my zombie mask?" You had to pull the front of the shirt over your face, allowing a rather frightening zombie face to replace your own. I would advise against wearing this without some sort of undershirt, however, as flashing your breasts may prove embarrassing. I know how much you like those zombie shows, no matter how unbelievable they may be. And, speaking of unbelievable…" He then pulled out a Doctor Who shirt. "I made sure I got the right one. Ten, right? Although I think he's far too skinny to be all that attractive," said the rather slender man sitting on the couch.

"Maybe he just my type?"

"No accounting for taste! But, wait, there's more." And what followed was a colorful skull and roses mousepad, a lovely jumper embroidered with a vibrant bouquet of flowers, and a purse covered with cut leather flowers individually attached. He then pulled out what seemed to be a human skull. "I think you'll find this quite useful. I talk to the one on my mantlepiece quite frequently. His name is Billy, but you can name this one anything you want. It's a female, by the way."

For some reason, Molly was inordinately touched by the fact that he had gifted her with a matching human skull. Then he started removing small plushes from the bag, and she had to start laughing once again. Microbes. Plush smallpox, ebola, polio, chickenpox, mad cow, leprosy - they tumbled out of the bag as the giggles tumbled from her lips.

"Ah, scientist that you are, I thought you might enjoy these!" Sherlock said with delight. But he did blush a bit when the next plush he pulled out was a model of a human sperm cell, followed immediately by an egg cell. "I do hope they weren't getting up to anything untoward in there," he joked as he looked, rather red-faced, into the bag.

"How romantic!" Molly guffawed at his sudden lack of composure, and her giggles returned at the next few microbes to make their appearance. Herpes, chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, and HIV. "Maybe not so romantic, after all, eh, Sherlock?"

"I assure you, the order of the reveal was not intentional. I did not mean to dampen your spirits, Molly. I just thought you would get a kick out of seeing such ravages of human health presented as cute little plushy things. You're a doctor, and I thought…"

Molly cut him short by throwing her arms around his neck and moving in to kiss him on his cheek. He really did know her quite well. His strange, morbidly bizarre, and thoughtful gifts proved that he did, indeed, notice her, that perhaps she counted more than she had ever thought.

"There's one or two more things in here, Molly…"

"Sherlock, I didn't get you anything! I didn't expect this…"

"I realize that, Molly, and I also realize that that is entirely my fault. I'm not good at expressing myself. I take things for granted, I take people for granted. I'm an arsehole, as has been frequently pointed out to me."

Molly was becoming uncomfortable listening to the man she loved so deeply express his low opinion of himself, something which he certainly had never done before, so she interrupted him with a smile, "You said there was more. I don't see how you could top this, but let's see!"

Sherlock reached once more into the almost empty bag to remove a small box, and handed it to his pathologist. "I hope you like it. It's probably more to my taste than your, but I would look a bit peculiar wearing it, so I will enjoy seeing it on you." She opened the box to see a gold heart of an unusual design, natural looking yet somehow geometric. "It's a honeycomb, Molly. The jeweler made a mold of a natural honeycomb, then fashioned a piece of jewelry out of it, in the shape of a heart," Sherlock explained, pointing out the uneven hexagons. "You know my fascination with bees, Molly. I couldn't pass it by. And you remind me quite a lot of honey, being so sweet." Molly could tell that the man sitting next to her had almost choked on the compliment, unused as he was to expressing himself so openly.

"It's beautiful, Sherlock. Thank you. For the gifts, and the thought, and the compliment. It's far more than I ever expected…"

"And far less than you deserve, Molly." The great detective seemed to stammer a bit, and was looking a bit flushed. "There is one more thing. But it seems like more of a gift for me, rather than for you."

Molly pulled the bag toward her, and looked inside to find a beautifully wrapped box lying on the bottom. She reached to take hold of it, and saw Sherlock's blush deepen. His complexion certainly did not improve at all as she undid the wrappings and removed the lid. Lying amid the delicate tissue paper was a lovely little nothing of a teddy, pastel blue in color with touches of lace a tiny white rosettes.

"I know pink is your favorite color, but I did tell you that this present is more for me, and blue is mine." Sherlock managed to get out the complete sentence before his nerve failed.

It was now Molly's turn to blush, which she did profusely as she removed the flimsy piece of lingerie from its box. "Sherlock, what is this about?"

"It's my understanding that Valentine's Day is the one day most likely to end in sex, Molly. I hope I have not been misled."

"But why now, after all this time…"

"Simply because it has been all this time. I'm tired of waiting for our life together to begin. I've grown impatient with myself. If I've waited too long, please tell me. I suspect that you once loved me, but I'm entirely unsure about how you feel about me now, now that I am finally sure about how I feel about you. I love you, Molly, and I want you, and I want us! And I want it now!" Sherlock finished, and waited for a response. And waited. He wondered if this was how he looked to others when he was processing things in his mind palace. His "buffering face", some called it. He could now understand why it made people uncomfortable, because his comfort level was now somewhere in the sub-basement.

Finally his pathologist answered, "I love you, Sherlock. I always have, and I have every reason to believe that I always will. Can you say the same?"

He answered without a second thought, "Indubitably!" Then he braced himself as the much smaller woman launched herself at him like a heat-seeking missile. He was quite happy to be ground zero. Quite happy indeed.

At various small breaks in the snogging session, the detective managed to speak. "Then, can I assume that it's alright if I spend the night here, and we can leave for dinner at John and Mary's directly from here?"

"If I let you out of bed before dinner time, Sherlock!"

"I like your enthusiasm, Dr. Hooper. I just hope my stamina can keep up with it." And, saying that, he lifted her, still clutching the life-changing lingerie in her hand, and carried her into the bedroom. Perhaps they could name their first daughter "Victoria", after the shop at which he had done some shopping. As he kicked the door closed behind them, his final coherent thought for quite some time was, "So much for Mycroft and his flowers!"


End file.
